Birthday traditions
by ginnys01
Summary: it's George his 21st birthday, the first one without Fred


AN: one shot written for the QLFC week 3

Position prompt: **BEATER 2**: The Adumu Dance from Africa; write about a character that breaks a familial or societal tradition.

Thanks to my fellow Puddlemere United team member SilvermistRuhi for beta-ing.

* * *

The first of April, our birthday—no, my birthday. Fred isn't here anymore. For twenty years we've done everything together. Now, for the past eleven months, I've been on my own.

I still wake up each morning and say, "Morning Fred."

Every night before I go to bed I still say, "Night Gred."

Even after eleven months I haven't broken the habit. Today, I got halfway through our birthday tradition before I realised I was on my own.

Our birthday was the only day we didn't work together for our pranks, but competed with each other instead, see who could prank the most people. But we always pranked each other first, or tried to, at least. When we moved into our flat above the shop, we named the kitchen 'the safe zone'. In the kitchen we don't prank but try to outdo each other with a birthday breakfast. Points for originality and taste. I have the pancakes on, the chocolate melting and the marshmallows ready before I realise that I'm cooking for myself.

As soon as I remember, I stop. I won't have breakfast this morning, for I can't eat a birthday breakfast that I've cooked myself. I collapse on the sofa, not feeling like moving, not feeling like doing anything, in fact. The day that used the be the best day of the year had just turned into the worst. The day on which I can't forget that Fred isn't here anymore. I notice my list of possible pranks on the table, but when I look over the list, there is not a single prank I feel like doing. It just isn't the same without Fred.

Hours pass without me moving from my seat. When I finally move, I go back to our—no, _my_ bedroom. Instead of going to my bed, I make my way to Fred's bed. Under his bed is his 'incase-I-die-box'—a box each of us made during the war.

I've never opened it before as opening it would mean admitting that I'm alone now. But there is no way I can pretend that he is still here. He would never miss our birthday.

On opening the box, a small black cloud appears. The cloud spreads across the room, slowly changing colours. When I can't see anything except the cloud, it disappears leaving confetti falling to the floor.

The box contains a bunch of memory vials, with two letters on top.

I pick up the top letter and open it.

_Dear George,_

_(if you are not George. This is where you stop reading.)_

_I really hope that you never read this letter, but I'm writing it just in case. If you are reading this, I'm sorry. I know we are making these boxes just in case we die, but the thought of you dying and I surviving is something that I don't think I can live with._

_I am including this letter for if I do die and you survive. I'm not sure what to write. I keep thinking what would I want to read if George died and wrote this letter to me? The problem with that is the answer. I don't know. I don't think words would do it. But the thought of not writing anything is worse._

_I have included memories in this box. Good memories for if you ever need cheering up._

_It leaves me just saying this. I'm sorry. Keep living for the two of us._

_Always your better looking half,_

_Gred._

Tears are rolling down my face. Fred was right. There are no words, but nothing would have been worse. When I finally feel as if there are no tears left, I open the next parchment.

_To whomever is reading this,_

_If you find this box, it probably means both George and I have died. We are in the middle of a war, and both of us are making a box. Just in case. Even writing this letter, I hope that no one will ever read it._

_If you do, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for dying._

_Please let everyone in the family know that I love them, and to remember me by pranking._

_I really hope this isn't needed as I love my life and all of you._

_Lots of love,_

_Fred._

Even though I don't feel like it, I decide to watch a memory. I randomly pick a vial and pour it into our pensive.

"_So a prank war? See who is best?" A not quite 5-year old Fred Weasley asks._

_George nods. "Yes, we will be 5 tomorrow, we have to show them that we are big boys now."_

"_But separately? Can't we just work together?" Fred asks in a slightly unsure voice._

"_Yes, we have to do it separately. On our birthday we see who is best out of both of us and we learn. And It gives everyone else double trouble. The rest of the year we work together," _

_The younger George replies. "We start as soon as we get up, and finish at bedtime."_

_With that both slightly nervous twins climb into their beds._

_A now 5-year old Fred is standing in the pantry, looking through the door into the kitchen. His mum is standing there cooking, using the spices just as always. Fred just hopes that he can remember which food is made with the spices that he has swapped. It isn't a big prank, but it is a start. He's only five after all._

_A bang in the living room gives Fred the opportunity to escape from the kitchen and onto the stairs ready to pretend to have come down after hearing the bang. _

_By the time Fred reaches George Mum's lecture seems to have finished and as everyone still living at home and old enough to come down the stairs by themselves is downstairs, mum sends everyone into the kitchen and to the table while going upstairs to get Ginny and Ron. Fred quietly follows everyone else, trying to not be too obvious. _

_It isn't long before birthday wishes have been given, and everyone starts to eat—everyone except Fred, that is. The memory ends with everyone looking horrified. _

The memory manages to put a smile on my face. That had been the start of our own tradition. Nobody else had been happy with it, but it had stayed, each year we had tried to outdo each other, and the pranks we had pulled before. When we had gone to Hogwarts, it was even better—we had had so many more pranking options. Not only more targets, but also the use of magic.

This had been my favourite tradition. One that I had thought we would continue until we were too old to set up the pranks. And even then, I had thought we would just get our family members to help out. I had never thought that the tradition would stop so soon—especially not by one of us dying so young.


End file.
